Who We Are in the Dark
by Bridget Weinstock
Summary: Messes with the events (and in-ep continuity) of "For One Night Only." Peter/Assumpta. Padraig and Brendan resort to desperate measures to save their brainchild, catalyzing a big decision for Peter.
1. Chapter 1

Brendan Kearney wished more than anything that he'd never put pen to paper, never opened his big mouth to Padraig O'Kelly, never agreed to have their messy, cobbled-together, controversial, anachronistic play produced - least of all by Brian Quigley. Now their lead actor was hobbled by a freak encounter with a ginger tabby, well out of commission. Now the leading lady and the understudy were behaving like petulant children at the prospect of one measly stage kiss. All right, several measly stage kisses. Fine - numerous stage kisses, carefully scripted to grow less and less measly over the last few minutes of the production.

But had they _not_ already toned it down at Father Clifford's request? And for that matter, so the leads _were_ in reality a priest and a clergy-despising publican. So what?! Brendan had met grammar-school pupils with more professionalism. He'd seen students fuss far less than this in their abridged production of _Romeo and Juliet_. At least those twelve-year-olds could hold it together for an awkward peck.

At this very moment, Assumpta Fitzgerald was throwing one of her legendary tantrums, "demanding privacy." Had it been so long since she was the foremost troublemaker in Brendan's class? Was he so out of practise that he could no longer get her to behave?

"To be honest, I'm not very comfortable with this, either," Peter Clifford now chimed in, every bit the sort of suggestible second-banana that a juvenile delinquent like Assumpta would have liked to have in the schoolyard. Brendan thought for a moment about acquiescing to the ridiculous demand of an unobserved rehearsal, but when he turned to Padraig, another notion struck:

_Fine. They want to play like immature brats, I'll show them._

"There a cloakroom or something in this place?" he muttered. Padraig scowled for a minute, trying to parse this. Brendan watched with satisfaction as the penny dropped. Padraig had a teenager of his own.

"Are you suggesting...?" Brendan nodded.

* * *

"You can't do this!" Assumpta shrieked as her guardian steered her by the shoulders into the dark closet.

"You two want to act like children, we're happy to comply," Padraig retorted, shoving the curate in after her.

"Aren't we a little old for...'seven minutes in heaven'?" Peter said, incredulous, as the outside lock clicked behind them.

Brendan's voice came through. "You certainly are."

"That's why we're making it twenty minutes," said Padraig.

"Oh, bog off! What's next? Truth or dare? Spin the bottle?" Assumpta yelled. Peter couldn't see her standing a foot away, but he knew exactly the look she must have on her face now. Her jaw was dropped, her dark eyes were wide, and her brows were pushing toward one another in disbelief. A flush was creeping up her neck, moving over her ears. He'd seen it a thousand times, and though he'd never admit it to anyone, it made his mouth water every time. He grinned into the pitch blackness.

"And we'll reset that clock every time we hear either one of you speak so much as a word," Brendan added.

"Oh, for the love of-we are adults!" Now her voice had that delicious edge of fury in it. She couldn't possibly know how crazy it drove him. The whole setup was torture.

"That just set you back twenty seconds."

Peter hoped neither of them could hear the smile in his own voice. "Surely you're not going to sit out there with a stopwatch-"

An electronic beep was his answer. He sighed and leaned against what felt like a coat.

Assumpta couldn't resist making it worse. "This hardly counts as privacy, Brendan!" _ Beep!_

"Be quiet!" Peter hissed. _Another beep._

"I'm sorry, I'm just so-" _Beep._

"Shhh..."

Outside, they could hear the exterior door opening, and Padraig telling Brendan he'd find out who it was. Brendan agreed to keep an ear on the closet.

No useful light came in through the top or bottom of the door; neither of the hostages could communicate in the complex facial expressions that had become their second language since the curate first arrived in Ballykea. _So,_ Peter thought, _we can't speak. We can't look at each other. I don't know Morse code... _The usual defences of double-meanings and feigned indifference were stripped away.

The only thing at their disposal was the thing they had tried to do as little as possible, as if by tacit agreement, since the day they met.

They would have to touch each other.


	2. Chapter 2

Peter took a deep breath, trying to imagine it was a pint of lager. He slowly, gingerly advanced his hand, hoping it would touch down someplace that wasn't completely inappropriate. He felt the tips of her fingers connect with the heel of his hand, felt her thumb find its way to his palm.

This could work, he thought, as their fingers met and interlaced, their palms pressed together, and...was she pulling him close? She was. Her other hand was exploring the cables of his guernsey sleeve, trailing up and down his arm, cupping his elbow with a tenderness and cautiousness that surprised him. Then and there he promised himself he'd never breathe a word of it, of whatever took place here, to anyone. _If it's a sin, there'll be no repeating it._

The distance between them dissolved now as he drew her carefully into his arms. He tilted his face into her hair, stopping a moment to take in the softness of it, the scent of her. Without really thinking about it, he kissed the top of her head - just barely, not even sure if she could feel it.

He needn't have wondered. Now her hands ran up his back, along his neck, and then into his short hair, guiding him, steering his mouth to her own. As their lips connected for the first time, it was all he could do to be silent; as the kiss deepened and she pulled him tighter against her, every fibre of his being came alive, and a small moan escaped. Would Brendan hear it outside? Would it count against them? He suddenly didn't care. He suddenly had all sorts of ideas about how to use twenty minutes. Or an hour.

He broke away from her mouth and began to navigate his way over her jaw, down her neck, then back up to her ear. This wasn't in the final revision of the script, though he told himself the early drafts would have supported it. Her arms were tight around him, her nails pressing into his back through his jumper, her body rising against him. Only when he felt the pounding of her heart did he realise where his own hand was. Startled by his own lack of control, and suddenly aware that she could feel how his body was reacting, he tried to move back. He promptly stumbled over an ill-placed box on the floor. The both of them tumbled into the opposite wall, falling slowly but noisily. She came down on top of him. If anyone outside heard the crash, no one let on.

For a moment they froze, panting, both their hearts racing. He put his mouth against her ear and whispered as quietly as he could: "Are you OK?" His answer was a kiss even fiercer than when they were upright. She was astride him; there would be no concealing his desire now. The tumble and the repositioning had brought the hem of her long skirt well above her knees, he now realized as his hand wandered to her thigh. Only a few layers of fabric intervened between them. He was vaguely aware that they were nearing an event horizon, an irreparable injury to his vows and, if word got out, to both their reputations and their futures in this village. Ordinarily, in the light of day, one of them would surely have called a halt by now, would have stormed out exclaiming that it wasn't right, couldn't go on, that the status quo must be protected at all costs.

But there was no light of day. There was no talking allowed. Here in the dark, under the pretense of a play rehearsal, they were being more honest with themselves than either had ever dared before. Their world would burn for this. It was already burning.

She reached down to his belt buckle, eliciting a loud gasp. Had the pair of them gone mad? Brendan Kearney was right outside the door, and how much time was left on that clock, anyway? Surely not enough for them to get away with what was unbelievably close to happening.


	3. Chapter 3

Meanwhile in the tiny auditorium, Padraig was losing his battle to fend off Father Mac, two parish priests, and a bishop.

"What on earth do you mean, an understudy?" the local PP demanded.

"Enda Sullivan blew out his ankle. Father Clifford stepped in as a personal favour."

"Well, how charitable of the curate in your hour of need!" The sarcasm was near to over-the-top. Had the rehearsal continued in this space, Padraig was sure the older priest would be clapping slowly and rolling his eyes.

Before he could stop himself, he retorted: "Well, only if you'd auditioned for one of the other roles. Sure you've a flair for the dramatic."

Bishop Costello let loose a chuckle at this, and Father Mac went crimson. There'd be hell to pay, Padraig knew.

"So where, praytell, is this rehearsal taking place, if not on the stage?"

Padraig couldn't meet his eyes.

"Mr. O'Kelly!"

He had to think quickly. He hated that. "Think they took off to run lines in the hallway."

Oh, brilliant. The hallway. Where the cloakroom was. Where Brendan Kearney was sitting, eating his lunch, reading his paper, and resetting a stopwatch every time he heard a peep out of the two young adults locked inside that cloakroom. Now these four men of the cloth were marching down the corridor to investigate for themselves.

No sooner had they left than the severe eyes of Brian Quigley locked Padraig's from the top of the center aisle.

"What's this I hear about Enda Sullivan?" His voice was cold, clipped.

"Sprained an ankle yesterday. Unfit for duty."

"And you think the local curate is a suitable understudy?!"

Padraig shrugged. "Assumpta wouldn't work with anyone else."

"I paid for a rock star, not a priest!" Brian spat.

Padraig looked away.

"Preposterous." The investor stormed out into the street, in search of a miracle.

* * *

Brendan took another bite of his apple and scanned another obituary. He found the life stories fascinating, even if the grammar was invariably lacking and the poetry stunk of doggerel. He was now engrossed in the adventures of a Cilldargan man who'd lived to be eighty-seven, and whose only listed survivor was a terrier named Precious. Brendan ignored the implications of this for his own confirmed bachelorhood, and focused instead on the gross misquoting of James Joyce in the final paragraph. It was still a welcome distraction from the ambiguous rustling in the closet, which had now continued for...sixteen minutes and forty-three seconds. He willed himself not to speculate. He'd been trying his best since that awkward thud several minutes ago.

He looked up to see four men in clerical collars making their way down the corridor. It occurred to him that the, ahem, "actors" might appreciate a warning to keep still.

"Good afternoon, Father Mac! Father Brady! Father O'Shaughnessy! Bishop Costello!"

The rustling in the closet stopped dead. Father Mac frowned at the awkwardness of the schoolteacher's greeting.

"We were told we might find your young romantic leads rehearsing this supposed fine art."

Brendan hoped his smirk registered as more of a wry smile. "Just missed them, you did. Ran through their lines, took off separate ways about...eighteen minutes ago."

"How oddly precise a recollection. If you see the publican, Niamh Egan has a message for her; if you see the curate, he's to telephone me at once."

Brendan now noticed that Bishop Costello was mocking Father Mac's angry gestures from behind his back. It was all Brendan could do not to lose it.

The stopwatch went off as the clergymen retreated down the hallway. Father Mac turned over his shoulder with a curious look on his face. Thinking quickly, Brendan pocketed the stopwatch. "Thought I'd already shut that blasted thing off," he said casually.


	4. Chapter 4

The lock mechanism made an audible click in the surrounding silence, but the door remained shut. "Coast is clear," they heard Brendan whisper. "No rush, whenever you're ready."

It took a moment. The younger man and woman emerged, hair mussed, clothes rumpled, red-faced; both recoiled in pain at the sudden flood of light.

"You...saw your way through the blocking, I trust." Neither one would meet his eyes; both nodded, squinting. "Not sure if you heard Father Mac just now...?"

"I'd better stop home and make the call," Peter managed.

"And I'll go see what Niamh's on about," Assumpta said softly.

They still wouldn't look at Brendan, but he noticed they stole a glance at each other.

* * *

The fresh air was a comfort to Assumpta's burning cheeks as she made her way back to the pub. She felt drunk, almost, and tried her old trick from university, forcing herself to be hypervigilant. What had just taken place? What would have happened if it had been permitted to continue? What would happen now - were they really any better prepared to go in front of a crowd on opening night? Would he ever speak to her again? They had been seconds from going all the way, and...well, they had most certainly made a mess. You couldn't unring a bell.

She opened the heavy blue door as quietly as possible. She escaped the customers' notice, but Niamh alighted on her immediately.

"What on Earth happened to you?"

God, she hadn't checked her reflection. What if there were marks on her neck?!

"Never mind. The PPs and the bishop checked out."

"What? Why?"

"Apparently they found the accommodations...lacking. Accustomed to minibars, color TV, that sort of thing."

"Ah." Assumpta was too dazed to form her usual biting response.

"And truth be told, I think Father Mac was...a little embarrassed."

This provoked a sharp laugh. "Well," Assumpta replied. "Every cloud..."

"Seriously, why're you all...disheveled?"

Siobhan looked up from her own pint on hearing this, but said nothing. Assumpta excused herself to the pub toilet.

Niamh watched her go, then turned to Siobhan and shrugged.

"Say," said the veterinarian. "Wasn't she just at rehearsal?"

* * *

Dr. Michael Ryan was used to patients playing know-it-all, but this Sullivan character was testing his reserves. Between begging for a magic bullet like a pro footballer might use, and offering autographed CDs of his dreadful songs, the man seemed fully steeped in hubris.

"Just to get him through the show, Doctor," Brian pleaded.

Michael sighed. "I can offer a steroid for the swelling and a painkiller to take the edge off, but it's generally not advisable to trick the injury into hiding. You could do permanent damage to the joint by using it like normal when it's not."

"I do what I have to for my art," Enda replied. Michael thought briefly where the nearest vomit basin might be.

"Doctor, the show must go on," Brian pleaded.

"I'll do as you ask, but I tell you it's not a wise course of action." He retreated from the examination room and returned a moment later with an ominous hypodermic needle, fully loaded with cortisone.

Enda Sullivan puffed his chest like a wounded soldier in battlefield triage - and promptly fainted.


	5. Chapter 5

Peter needed to collect himself. He was in no state of mind to talk to Father MacAnally about whatever trouble he was in this time. Could the man possibly know what had happened that afternoon? He banished the notion from his mind and put on a kettle.

He looked himself over in the mirror. It felt as though it must show on him somehow, a beacon lit above his head or an aura surrounding him. He could still taste her, still smell her on his skin. He noted with relief that his collar bore no traces of lipstick, but he was alarmed to find a few dark auburn hairs clinging to the wool of his sweater. His face was still hot, as if he'd been sunburnt from the inside. Maybe tea would just make things worse, but he needed something calm and familiar and astringent.

An alibi might not be necessary. No sane person would believe that the dueling playwrights enforced this kind of...of "method acting" on their hapless stars. If he did confess, Father Mac might assume he was being sarcastic. It was, after all, the old man's mother tongue.

The thought of confession troubled him. He'd already pledged to himself that the events of the cloakroom rehearsal were inadmissible, just as anything onstage would be. They were playing parts. Getting into character. Doing what had to be done. The morning after the performance they'd simply return to life as before. No big deal. He could justifiably march right over to Fitzgerald's after close tonight and repeat the whole thing move for move, purely in the interest of the craft...

He was not successfully fooling himself. They'd gone well beyond the call of duty; their behavior had more closely matched the questionably-meritorious original version of the play. Not ready for prime time. Not by half. Conduct unbecoming, if not an outright breach. Too, though, the happiest he'd felt in years. Indefensible.

He glanced at the phone in the kitchenette, and decided that this call might better be placed from the bedside table, just in case it contained a landmine.

* * *

Back at Fitzgerald's, Ambrose Egan had just arrived to escort his wife home before his night beat. In typical fashion, Niamh took her sweet time doffing her apron and clocking out. Punters interfered with her repeated attempts to corner Assumpta in the kitchen, and the landlady was not about to cooperate with a whispered interrogation behind the bar.

"Something happened with Enda, didn't it?" Assumpta ignored this. Niamh pressed on. "How'd you really sprain his ankle?" Her eyes were shining, her cheeks bursting with a grin.

"Niamh," Ambrose sighed, "Are you ready to go?"

"Sure you'll live another moment," she hissed back. Her husband rolled his eyes and shifted his weight.

"Drink while you're waiting, Ambrose?" Assumpta asked.

"No, thank you."

Padraig was making his usual show of a pout and a whimper because his glass had run dry. Assumpta wordlessly swept away the empty and pulled him a fresh pint. Niamh noticed he and Brendan were both smirking when she turned her back.

"You two want to fill me in on what happened at rehearsal?" Niamh asked. The men only laughed.

"Niamh, any day now," Ambrose said.

Niamh scowled and collected her purse. "Sure, Niamh, love to tell you, hate to keep you in the dark," she muttered, hauling Ambrose out the door with her.


	6. Chapter 6

"And you'd have me believe there was no other suitable replacement to take on a romantic role in a local production?"

"I'm the director, Father. It was down to me when no one else stepped up."

Father MacAnally rubbed his eyes and reached for his whiskey. The insubordination was getting a bit out of hand. "Father Clifford, you must have imagined the reactions of your parishioners to a spectacle like this."

The curate was quiet on the line for a moment. "The thought had occurred to me."

"And surely it occurred to you that some people have more skill than others at distinguishing the line between fiction and reality?"

Father Clifford didn't reply.

"I trust that we the audience can count on your own ability to make the distinction tomorrow night?"

The gaps in their dialogue were growing longer. Peter finally spoke: "Father, what do you want me to say?"

"I would like your word that you have not lost yourself in this make-believe playtime with Assumpta Fitzgerald."

Another long pause. A sure sign of traditional English economy-with-the-truth! "We'll speak tomorrow after the performance, Father."

"That's hardly reassuring!" The line went dead. Father Mac slammed his glass down on his desk.

* * *

No sooner had Peter ended the uncomfortable phone call with his senior than he heard Brian's key in the door downstairs.

"Father?" Something in the bombast of the man's voice seemed to erode any respect out of the title.

Peter tried to look at ease as he came downstairs.

"Great news, Father. Enda Sullivan will be able to go on! Our production is saved."

"Huh. Really."

"Doc Ryan gave him a beautiful drug cocktail to get him through. Ankle hasn't the slightest idea it was ever twisted!"

"Ah. Great."

"Don't act so ecstatic. He'll be there for makeup call tomorrow."

Peter resigned himself to the news. Brian turned to go.

"Have you told Assumpta?" Peter called behind him.

"On my way to the pub right now."

As soon as the door shut, Peter darted to the phone.

* * *

"Fitzgerald's?"

"'Sumpta, we need to talk."

"Can't right now, pub to run."

"Not about that."

Assumpta found herself annoyed by this. "It's a bad time."

"Look, Enda's back on his feet. I'll be over later to discuss everything, I just thought you should hear it from me."

She thought of a hundred things to say; ten of them were not obscene; three of those would keep her pride intact; one would keep the caller's identity a secret from eavesdropping punters.

"Fine. See you then."

"'Sumpta?"

"Oh, God, what?!"

"I...Brian's going to tell you when he gets there. If you get upset, he might wonder..."

"Fair point," she grumbled, hanging up. Sure enough, when she turned round the Three Amigos were gawking shamelessly.

"Don't you lot start in," she warned.

Siobhan shrugged innocently. When the publican was out of earshot, she turned to her wingmen. "How was rehearsal this afternoon?"

Padraig, presently three sheets to the wind, burst into laughter. Brendan, merely buzzed, tried a more dignified response: "Oh, lots of progress, I think."


	7. Chapter 7

The knock came about twenty minutes past close. Assumpta hated herself for shaking as she reached for the door.

Peter's green eyes were the widest she had ever seen them as he followed her into the kitchen.

There was one word to open a conversation like this:

"So..."

"Brian come by to deliver the great news?"

"I think I gave a convincing show of enthusiasm, yeah."

"I'm so sorry."

"It's for the best, isn't it?"

He looked stunned.

She went on. "I mean, we both know...what happened this afternoon..."

"What about it?"

She made an incredulous face. "You're going to play dumb at this hour? We were one zipper away from -"

"I remember, thank you," he whispered.

"You're a priest. Did you forget that?"

"I don't recall you raising any protests yourself on behalf of my vocation!" He was moving his eyebrows in that lopsided way that always devastated her.

"You took a vow, Father. I didn't. Now, you can walk out of here right now and I'll chalk it up to a lapse in judgment for both of us, never speak of it to anyone, take it to my grave."

He realised she was leaving something out. "Or else?"

"Or else you can tell me the whole truth about how you feel, and I'll accept it - whatever it is - and..." She looked dizzy. Her voice softened. "I'll do whatever you want. Take that to my grave as well."

He found he needed to steady himself with a chair. Had she just said what he thought she had?

"I'm not about to take a mistress, Assumpta."

She would not meet his eyes.

"But you're right: today we found out who we both are in the dark."

Now she looked up. He went on. "And maybe...maybe when I don't have clever wordplay and longing looks to fall back on, maybe I'm reduced to simplest components. You, too, I think."

"Speak for yourself, Peter. What are you trying to say?"

"For this I'll need either a confessional booth or a stiff drink, your pick."

She opened a bottle of merlot, pouring a glass. She kept the glass for herself and handed the bottle to Peter.

He smiled sadly and swigged straight from it.

"Now you have to earn it."

"What happened today," he began, "I've imagined doing since the first time I saw you."

She drained her glass and snatched the bottle from him to pour another.

"Easy!" he cautioned. She passed the bottle back his way with a sharp look.

"Right, as I was saying. I don't especially regret what we did. What we almost did. I didn't think of my vows in that closet, anyway not nearly as much as I think of you when I'm supposed to be tending the flock."

"Peter, don't pin this on me. Please? I can't be responsible for this..."

"You're not." He allowed himself one more swig from the bottle. "I am. I'm the one who fell in love. And whatever you think, however you feel about me...well it's last in a long list of signs that I'm not meant for the priesthood."

"Hold on. What did you say?"

"Priesthood. Not meant for it. Want a family, bad at obedience, worse at fundraising-"

"Before that."

"Oh, that I've fallen in love? Yeah, that...been for a while now."

She stood silent for a moment, then flung a dirty tea towel at him and stormed into the barroom.


	8. Chapter 8

He picked up the wine and followed her. "You wanted the truth!"

She grabbed for the bottle again, but the tall man held it out of reach.

"You have to talk to me."

Her eyes were wild. "How long?!" He knew this tone of voice, too. When he nearly totaled her car; when he bandaged the cut on her forehead. It got shrill and mellifluous, somehow both at once. A siren wail, really: "How long have you known?"

"A long time, all right?" He fixed her gaze. He quieted down. "A long time. I just didn't know what to do about it until now." His voice broke. "Please say something."

They were both on the verge of tears. "Peter, what are you going to do?"

"Quit me day job, for a start. Rest depends on you."

"Peter-"

"Look, you don't have to answer tonight. I'll be round. Let me know."

He calmly turned to leave.

He made it three paces before he was snared by a surprisingly strong embrace from behind.

"'Course I'm in love with you," she sobbed into his back.

He faced her and drew her in close. "Biggest mess is already made then, innit?"

* * *

The auditorium was packed with just a few minutes to curtain, as Enda and Assumpta put the last touches on their makeup. Brendan watched with mixed feelings: Brian would be glad to have the quasi-celebrity he paid for, and Peter could avoid getting in further trouble with Father Mac. Still, the chemistry between these two had been lukewarm at best.

And now Enda looked just a little green in the gills.

"You all right, man?" Even Padraig noticed it, evidently.

"Painkillers don't sit well with me."

"Did you eat something before you took 'em?"

Enda looked blank. "I don't remember."

Assumpta knew that look well enough from her years behind the bar. Thinking quickly, she slid a wastebasket under her co-star in the nick of time.

"Serves him right," said Niamh as she set Assumpta's face with translucent powder. "He named the Scottish play out loud not an hour ago." Niamh winked at Enda, who lowered his face and retched again. Brendan thought the Garda's wife seemed all too keen on the notion of playing nurse for the one-hit has-been.

* * *

Siobhan found Peter in a seat near the back, dread all over his face.

"Emergency, Father. You're needed backstage."

"Oh, no! Is everyone all right?"

"Well, no need to anoint anybody, if that's what you mean. But your leading man can't stop throwing up. You'll have to step in after all."

"I can't do that, I've already bought me ticket!" he said lamely.

"You'll have to," came the voice of Brian Quigley from behind him. "I take no pleasure in the idea myself, Father. You can't act your way out of a bubble bath! But he's down to bile and still heaving. He's no good to me now."

Peter could have done without the details, but he reluctantly left his seat and headed backstage to change.

* * *

It was a good job the stagelights more or less blinded the pair to the audience's reactions during the final scene. Liam and Donal were convulsing with silent laughter. Father Mac was on the verge of a stroke. Kathleen Hendley rose and marched out, lips pursed, arms folded. Siobhan was collecting bet money from Brendan and Padraig. Ambrose was holding back tears. Brian was frowning as usual. Eamonn had fallen asleep.

Backstage, Niamh put a cold cloth on Enda's forehead, then made her way to the wings to spy on the finale. As she watched her two good friends kiss passionately in front of the crowd, she suddenly realised just what must have happened in rehearsal the day before. It hit her differently in different places: her stomach was flipping, her mind racing, her heart pounding. She felt angry on the one hand; on the other hand, she almost wanted to laugh. How could she have been blind to it for a year? So much ridiculous behavior suddenly made sense.

She wondered what they would do now.

The lights went down, and Enda retched again.


	9. Chapter 9

Back in their street clothes, Peter and Assumpta lingered a moment in the dressing room.

"Not ready to go back out there either?" she said.

"Still need a moment to get into character, I think."

"You mean out of character?"

"No, that was me up there. Only you're the one who knows that. They're expecting someone else." He nodded toward the exit.

"Right," she whispered.

"I've a feeling Father Mac will want _a word_," he added, mimicking the older man's voice.

She smirked guiltily. "Mmm. We in trouble?"

"Big trouble." He risked a brief but intense kiss. "Worth it, though, I'd say."

"Meet up later at Fitzgerald's?"

"Maybe. Got any rooms available?"

Her eyebrows jumped. "Only all of them; why?"

"Brian gave me the most wonderful idea of drawing a bubble bath and trying to act my way out of it."

"Well, that's a show I'd pay to see." She moved to go.

"'Sumpta?"

She looked back over her shoulder.

"We'll figure this out. Believe me."

Her smile was uncertain, but her shoulders relaxed. "I know."

* * *

The play was over, but the theatrics had just begun.

Doc Ryan had arranged the lightheaded Kathleen Hendley on a bench outside, her head gracelessly between her knees to stimulate blood flow. Perhaps she had hyperventilated in a moment of sheer righteous indignation; then again, it seemed as if fainting spells were all the rage this week. Maybe a virus was making the rounds.

At any rate, a vasovagal episode did little to quiet the shopkeeper. She kept repeating the word "shocked." Michael dutifully remained at her side, but he scanned the growing crowd in the street for more entertaining dialogue.

Ambrose, still misty-eyed, was lavishing adoration on a bashful Padraig; the co-writer, meanwhile, was getting an earful from the producer. Smelling blood in the water, the parish priest moved in on the exchange.

"A very convincing performance," Father MacAnally sneered. "Tell me, where might I congratulate the leading man?"

"Father Clifford was terrible," Brian laughed. "Told him before he couldn't act his way out of a bubble bath."

"I thought he did well enough under the circumstances," Brendan said.

"I'd hardly call it acting, however," said the priest. "Typecasting, perhaps."

"How's that?" asked Brendan. He looked as if he knew damn well. Michael had a hunch himself. Father Mac stared at the stage door, arms folded, foot tapping.

Brendan sighed. "Shall I go check on him for you?"

The response was a grimace.

* * *

Brendan let himself backstage and knocked at the change-room door. "Decent in there?"

Assumpta opened the door, eyes downcast.

"Can't hide in here forever, you know."

"Yeah, yeah..."

"How's the vibe out there?" Peter asked.

"Well, no one else has puked yet. But, three guesses who wants to speak with you."

Peter nodded soberly and stepped out into the night. Brendan noticed his longtime charge still wouldn't look him in the eye.

"What's on your mind, Assumpta?"

"Brendan, I'm fine."

After all these years, it was still a crapshoot to get her to open up about her troubles. The old Fitzgerald stubbornness ran strong in the family's last survivor.

"Is it anything to do with yesterday's rehearsal?"

She didn't answer.

"I didn't mean to cause any trouble."

"It's hardly your fault," she mumbled.

He wasn't about to pry. "Well, on another matter, you performed beautifully. You're exactly how I imagined Mary when I wrote her."

Her perfunctory thanks rode out on an odd sound that was half laugh and half sob. Brendan knew he'd stepped in some irony, so he nodded goodnight and moved to go.

"Brendan, wait."

He pivoted.

"I'll explain everything soon enough. 'Til then could you please humour me and pretend you haven't the slightest?"

He abruptly hugged her. By Fitzgerald standards, that was a brave disclosure.


	10. Chapter 10

Peter thought about the priest perk of uncontested driving credentials now, as he hung on for dear life in the passenger seat of Father Mac's sedan. The older priest had said nothing of where they were going, only ordered his curate into the car. Peter briefly imagined the Gardai pulling his lifeless body from the river the following morning. No doubt a swift acquittal was a perk, too!

As the drive wore on, Peter realised there might be no particular destination. A few miles in, Father Mac broke the silence.

"Don't imagine you're the first priest it's happened to."

"I don't know what you mean."

"Really, to play dumb at this hour!"

Peter turned his smirk toward the window, forgetting the reflection would betray him.

"Wipe the grin off your face, Father. This is serious."

"Sorry."

A few seconds passed before the snort escaped.

"Father Clifford!"

Peter wanted badly to stop giggling; really, he did. Something had come over him and he couldn't suppress it. Nerves? Soon he was shaking, tears on his face, as the bad driver got more and more irate. The older man's frustration only made him want to laugh harder. The notion of the vicious circle struck him pretty funny, too; perhaps he was sleep-deprived.

"Explain yourself!"

Peter fought in vain against the laughter wracking his body. "Forgive me, you sounded like somebody else..."

"I have reason to believe you are in crisis, Peter."

Peter pulled his lips taut in a last-ditch effort to contain the impending guffaw, but it was no use. Father Mac tightened his grip on the wheel. Braking sharply, he veered onto the shoulder.

"If you cannot muster a little contrition-"

Peter rubbed the sore spot where the seatbelt had cut into him. "You haven't yet told me what I've done!"

"You've succumbed to infatuation."

At this, the curate sobered up.

"Coveting, lust, whatever you want to call it."

"I don't think so."

"You believe you're in love, then?"

Peter was beginning to feel the proper amount of irritation. "You don't."

"I wouldn't presume to advise you."

The softspoken, inscrutable MacAnally was far more vexing than the icy, cruel one.

He went on: "I have some firsthand knowledge of these matters. I won't bore you with the specifics. I only ask that before you abandon your life's work, you think carefully about whether you're doing it for true love, or immediate ego gratification."

"In the last year I've thought about little else."

"And what have you concluded?"

"You know my history. Ego gratification I've contended with before. This is different."

"The argument could be made for another reassignment."

"The argument could be made that _this _reassignment has already proven what I needed to know."

The elder started his engine again and pulled back onto the roadway. Silence persisted until they pulled in front of the curate's house.

"I do commend you for your introspection, Peter. Far better to do the honourable thing than to remain a priest and carry on a tawdry affair in the closet."

Peter froze in his seat, horrified.

Then the laugh attack started again.

"That's what I thought. Blithering arse," muttered Father Mac as he watched Peter stagger to his door.


	11. Chapter 11

Peter stuffed a change of clothes into his rucksack and made for Fitzgerald's. He found the blue door unlocked; he latched it behind him.

On the counter he spotted a hand-lettered note with a room key attached.

_"Upstairs, first on left. See you at breakfast. -A"_

She had remembered, but she hadn't waited up. Fair enough, though he was disappointed. He tried to step as quietly as possible as he entered tonight's sleeping quarters.

On top of the neatly-made bed, he found a warm towel and...something shaped to look like a hot air balloon. On closer inspection, it was a bottle of kids' bubble bath. He grinned with the satisfaction that this was probably not a standard amenity. Probably not left by Bishop Costello, either. Leave it to the publican to go out and find bath bubbles late at night for the sake of a running joke.

He opened the door to the tiny private bath. Considering it a matter of duty, he turned on the faucet to fill the small tub. He dropped in a few capfuls of bubbles for good measure.

"It occurs to me that we were rudely interrupted the other day when you were at the bar. I still own you for at least two hours."

He dropped the bottle. She had waited up after all.

She had waited up in a dressing gown. Not a very long one.

He swallowed. "I'm sure we could come to some sort of...arrangement."

"Mmm."

He now saw she had arranged a bottle of prosecco on ice in the sink, and two glasses on the vanity. She turned her back now to open the seal and prise off the wire hood.

She gently wrapped the bottle in a tea towel. The cork popped quietly, with just a soft breath; a small amount of the wine gushed out. It occurred to him then that there ought to be a wall calendar of this. Twelve months of Assumpta Fitzgerald, just wearing dressing gowns and opening bubbly.

"Survived Ireland's worst carpool, I see."

He tried to sound relaxed. "Father Mac knows my intentions. We'll begin the war on ecclesiastical red tape tomorrow." Maybe not a calendar. Maybe a TV channel.

"How'd he take it?" She expertly did first pours, then waited for the fizz to subside. He got an idea.

"'Bout as well as could be expected."

She topped off the glasses and waited again. She repeated this once more before she was satisfied.

Now she lifted the two glasses and turned round to find her guest already in the bath, his clothes piled on the floor. She nearly spilt the drinks.

"What are you trying to do to me?" she gasped.

"Ohhh, I think you know," he smirked, sounding shakier than he'd have liked. "Is it working?"

She shoved one glass at him, nodding, and hastily downed the other.

"Cheers," he cracked.

"So you mean to-"

"Yes. You can't tell me you hadn't thought of it," he grinned, nodding at the various bubbling things surrounding him.

"Well, yeah, but I mean..." That blushing again. Neck, ears, cheeks...he was already responding to the sight of it. He wouldn't be able to act his way out of this one.

He prompted her: "It's natural you'd wonder; go ahead and ask."

"Have you ever...been with anyone?"

"Yes." Then, more quietly: "You know. Time's passed, but..."

"'Course..."

"You?"

"Ha ha."

"Well, hey, how would I know?"

"Well,_ time's passed,_ but...yeah." She nodded self-consciously toward the medicine cabinet. "Prepared and all, too, so."

He emptied his glass and handed it back. She set it aside with her own.

"Nervous?"

She was now totally aglow, and trembling a little. "Don't be silly."

"Mmhmm, me too."

"Come on. Why would I be nervous?" she bluffed.

"'Cos in about five seconds, I'm pulling you in here with me."

She flung her robe to safety before it was too late.

* * *

Their first time together had been passionate, reverent, strangely intuitive - and utterly exhausting. They now lay facing one another in the bed, their breathing ragged, both of them covered in gooseflesh.

"You're shivering," she said.

"So are you," he replied, drawing the top sheet and duvet up to their chins. The air disturbance tortured them with a short blast of cold, making the following warmth even sweeter. "Here." He gently rolled her over and pressed himself against her back.

"Is this really happening?" he breathed.

"It better be."

For the moment, it was all they needed to say. The enormity of the disruption ahead was not lost on either of them, but the unknown could wait for tomorrow. His arm protectively bridged over her. She had never before felt so safe as she did now, in the face of radical upheaval and total uncertainty.

She felt a kiss on the back of her neck. "I love you." Well, not total uncertainty.

"I love you, too, Peter."

In remarkably short order, both of them were out like lights.


End file.
